


But sound and fury

by hereticpop



Category: SMAP
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-22
Updated: 2012-02-22
Packaged: 2017-11-09 20:13:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/457919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hereticpop/pseuds/hereticpop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They only do it on tours.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But sound and fury

They only do it on tours. It’s simple.

Nakai isn’t sure if Beijing counts. Technically it isn’t a tour, but it’s the same parallel universe of doing concerts, and although he doesn’t think about it most of the time, he does think in passing that Kimura looks like he could use a blowjob when they’re sinking into deep chairs in the hall filled with Chinese chit-chat (he can’t understand it, it’s only noise, so much noise), the five of them sharp-edged in their suits like they’re something pretty, prettier than Nakai thinks they really are. The familiar smell of perfume and sweat drifts from the side and runs in the slightest tremble down Nakai’s back, but it fades into the background in no time and Nakai doesn’t think about it anymore for the whole day, and the next one.

Not until Kimura hovers behind him in a hallway and Nakai feels the hunger even if Kimura is gone already; the dark-eyed burn stays right at the nape of his neck, gushing down, sticky under his t-shirt. He could learn to like it if he didn’t hate the inevitability of it, the _fact_ that it will never be the matter of his choice to open the door of his hotel room later to let Kimura in – and Kimura’s sun-charred lack of facial expression, voluntary lack of shirt, half-posed lack of decency, he’ll let them all in and it will just feel crowded.

And he does. _Congratulate yourself, Hiro-chan._

“You walk hallways like this?”

_This_ is blatantly sexual, pretentiously nonchalant and wearing only a pair of jeans. He walks hallways like this. He walks life like this. At least he knows what he came here for.

“What were you expecting?”

Nakai shrugs. He wasn’t expecting anything. It’s past midnight.

The hard meeting of his spine and the wall is something between routine and ritual, but there’s always some variety, like now when Nakai’s shoulder hits the light switch and in the darkness Kimura is multitasking, feeling for the switch to turn it back on because he wants to see and sucking on Nakai’s jaw (because he wants to). Nakai wouldn’t mind not seeing once in a while. It would spare him the vividity of the flashbacks later, even if they would come in sensations anyway, fragmented, Kimura’s tongue hot on Nakai’s skin, the pressure of hips against his, clothes tugged, and something – _something_ – trying to rip out of his chest.

The bright light hits his eyes again, Kimura props himself with his forearm against the wall, teeth cling. Nakai tries to face away, he’s always thought Kimura wastes too much time on kissing, which he could spend on sucking cock or something equally productive, but Kimura’s other hand holds him in place, and then Nakai can’t keep his mouth still for long because he’ll give as good as he gets. His fingers trace lines, words, _poems_ between Kimura’s shoulder blades (if he were ever to write one, it’d be here; it wouldn’t stay).

Kimura pulls back with a breath as if emerging from under water and runs a hand down Nakai’s chest.

“I missed this.”

“Stop before you say something weird.”

It’s already weird, the feeling that the wrinkles around his eyes, radiating from his grin, give Nakai, but Nakai easily drowns it in arousal, wrinkling the front of Kimura’s jeans instead until he catches a glimpse of dark hair; he’s yet again reminded how unfair life is when it’s Kimura getting groped but it’s him struggling for air. Kimura just leans into it, like it’s something he deserves, probably for being the frustrating asshole that he is when he throws suggestions: a half-smile, a brush of fingers; all those times when it’s off-limits and each time that Nakai gets wound up, he promises he’ll make Kimura pay back, on his knees and begging, but he never does.

He knows he could, it’s enough.

Kimura’s buttons are easy to play, all they need is to be unbuttoned and Nakai does that with decades of expertise on his fingers ( _ah_ they’re so professional here) and Kimura really came here with one purpose because he didn’t even put underwear on and Nakai wonders briefly if he should feel offended or flattered. He would still find it rather awkward to hold Kimura’s dick in his hand if he had a moment to stop and wonder, but all of his ability is running south and there is no room for thought in his pants, there’s no room for anything in his pants right now and he thinks he might just be self-destructive. He doesn’t know why he isn’t getting some well-deserved sleep instead, when exhaustion is ringing in his bones; he should just lie down and if Kimura wants something, then he can stuff his mouth with it, but Nakai’s bones don’t feel like his anymore, they’re more like made of wood and string, and he has no idea who keeps them in motion. Not Kimura, too focused on other, _fleshy_ parts of Nakai, and if he closed his eyes, he could easily believe Kimura has more than two arms, his hands seem to be everywhere on Nakai. His teeth graze Nakai’s earlobe and when he says it, it’s barely audible.

“Fuck me.” There’s a grin in this, but Nakai doesn’t feel like laughing at all, more like holding onto Kimura’s elbow and the wall and air.

He rarely says it.

“You just want me to do all the work, don’t you,” Nakai says, letting go of him, but Kimura isn’t in the mood for teasing, his hips aren’t in the mood for teasing when they crash into him.

“You want to do it or not?”

Nakai pushes him away, strips down and sits on the edge of the bed, bouncing a few times. It’s too soft for his liking but he’s slept on enough hard surfaces in his life to make up for that and he’s never complained. Kimura, left by the wall, doesn’t look at him, eyelids lowered like he’s having a hard time and Nakai wants to tell him this is not a fucking movie and he won’t get anywhere with him while he’s standing and looking like a picture. Nakai looked at him for months and it didn’t get him anywhere (except for _off_ , but that was twice; maybe three times), sometimes he wishes he would see less of him.

He knows Kimura is waiting, so he tells him to “come here,” and Kimura does, stopping right in front of him, between Nakai’s parted knees. Nakai likes him here. The seams of Kimura’s jeans touch his skin and Nakai can feel his own skin hot, almost aching. He remembers how they used to talk a lot while having sex, when they weren’t sure about their sweaty palms and impatient lips and how Kimura loved talking dirty and how Nakai managed to make him laugh because he liked the laugh. _They could’ve been something_ , even though it wouldn’t last and they knew, because they know everything now. Nakai knows that he has to reach into Kimura’s pocket before he yanks his jeans completely down and he knows to squeeze the lube onto his fingers while Kimura is kicking the jeans off and he knows the angle at which he has to be moving his finger in while his face is brushing Kimura’s hip and the only thing he doesn’t know is which of them burns so hard.

Kimura’s breath starts hitching in a familiar pattern and Nakai huffs, “I’ll kill you if you come on my face,” because maybe he remembers him expressing the desire to, a couple of times, and this was never in Nakai’s spectrum of interests.

“Make sure I won’t,” Kimura’s fingers tangle in Nakai’s hair (Nakai hates it for a moment when he thinks it’s no longer as much hair to tangle fingers in as it once was) and he turns Nakai’s face, although he doesn’t have to because Nakai knows. He takes him into his mouth, just the tip, sloppily swiping his tongue around and the pressure of Kimura’s hand guides his head but it annoys him, so he sucks hard, does that thing with his fingers that _always works_ , and Kimura is caught in between, gripping Nakai’s shoulder to keep on his feet. Nakai can foretell the fleshy purple of tiny scattered bruises that will weigh him down to one side for days to come (there should be no evidence left).

This can only last so long, keeping still is against Kimura’s very nature and in a flurry of hands and hair and trails of saliva Nakai is pushed away, pinned down to the bed, Kimura is kissing him again. Nakai wonders if he changed his mind about the whole thing because Kimura has this shine to his eyes like when he wants to fuck dear life out of him, but all he does is grab Nakai’s cock and stroke him until he’s as hard as he could ever be. Nakai is starting to wriggle on the bed but it’s nothing, Kimura shifts to hover above and looks straight at him when he asks, “How do you want me?” and then Nakai wants to break.

He thinks it’s easier when he doesn’t have to look at his face, but Kimura couldn’t stop _glowing_ if he tried and Nakai can tell.

“Lie down,” he says. “On your back.”

He dives to the floor after Kimura’s jeans, but when he goes through the pockets, he can’t find what he needs.

“Condoms?” he turns back.

“Don’t have,” and Kimura won’t even blink.

Nakai sighs. They had this conversation a hundred times and he doesn’t get it and Kimura is still just as careless, even though he once walked out when Nakai said, _well, at least you won’t knock_ me _up_ ; Nakai considered it his own little victory over humanity’s lack of reason and basked in glee for a couple of minutes (leftover aching erection or not). So he doesn’t know why he won’t just get up off the bed and dig around in his bag and why he kneels between Kimura’s spread legs instead, cock slickened and ready and he is waiting.

“Go on,” Kimura urges but Nakai just looks and then Kimura hooks his leg around his shoulder and pulls him toward himself like that – the same shoulder he was painfully holding on to earlier – and Nakai can barely breathe.

“What do you want me to say?” and Kimura can barely talk, “you know anyway.” He tries to kiss Nakai’s lips but misses; it doesn’t matter where he kisses anyway. “God, Nakai, just stick it in.”

And Nakai does know anyway, that he has him at this point where Kimura will do anything – _it’s not a point, Hiro-chan, it’s a fucking hotel bed that you have him on_ – maybe it’s some kind of payback that makes his hand sneak to Kimura’s ass and,

“ _Fuck_ ,” through gritted teeth. “Please.”

There’s only a little bit of satisfaction because he knows anyway.

He slides all the way in almost too easily and gets caught by this feeling like he’s going to collapse, break in half at the waist, dissolve and melt into Kimura, although Kimura is the one struggling and trying to twist, arch off the mattress and it makes Nakai want to growl and hold him down, which he does, until Kimura just throws his head back, biting down a moan on his lower lip, and lets himself be fucked.

Nakai doesn’t feel his body anymore, nothing but the spots where it clashes against Kimura’s. It’s no longer a matter of desire, just pure obsessive _need_ driving his hips forward again and again and again, more forcefully with each thrust like he’s trying to go somewhere, he wouldn’t know where ( _that space where nothing exists_ ), it’s unbearable but marvellous. Unbearable. Maybe he can see Kimura’s lips moving in the fog of his own eyelash flutter, the words don’t reach him. It’s the same as the language barrier that’s been deafening him for the past couple of days: the meaning – he can’t decipher. He runs his hand over Kimura’s raised leg, tracing the strained muscles of his thigh, grabs it roughly as he shoves into him harder and Kimura’s voice reaches him now, but it’s _oh yes_ and _Nakai_ and _fuck that’s good_ , still as meaningless. All they’re after is release, all is flesh, all is fucking until their bones rattle. Tomorrow morning it will have never happened, except that Nakai will hope Kimura can still feel him when he walks, and Kimura will look more stunning than usual, and they will avoid each other’s eyes like fire.

For now Kimura is fisting the sheets, clawing at Nakai and Nakai has to admit, he is still as deliciously bendy as he used to be. He pulls Nakai for a kiss again, this time Nakai bites him and hard, not playing in the least bit. Kimura’s groan when he breaks away is clearly that of pain, but it’s only a turn-on, Nakai could swear he just _squeezed_ around his cock, as if it isn’t tight and hot enough, as if it isn’t driving him mad already, his hips pick up a quicker pace like they’re trying to prove something. He doesn’t want to end it anymore, he wants to keep going until Kimura loses his voice (they did the concert already, it’s alright), he knew he didn’t want to see Kimura’s face for a reason. He does and this not entirely unfamiliar feeling wells up in his ribcage, a void, edges laced with desperation and he doesn’t need that, he doesn’t need Kimura’s hair, which he seems to be letting grow again, scattered on the hotel bed sheets, the sheen of sweat on his flushed cheeks, bronze skin – Nakai prays for a sudden blackout from heavens so that he could at least finish in the darkness – he knows this image will be coming back to him for weeks, overimposed on all Kimura’s faces in full bliss he’s ever seen (and god, he’s seen plenty), he won’t be able to properly look at him again. And yet he’s still doing this so it must be worth it, Kimura on the bed under him – for him, for Nakai and his cock and he’s never seen himself as anything special when it comes to these things – Kimura is nothing but sound and fury, and if that makes Nakai the idiot, then he is one.

He knows he’s hitting the right spot and he would gladly continue until Kimura’s a total mess, but he also knows he won’t be able to hold back much longer, they’ve been way too intense from the beginning, but when he’s trying to pull out, Kimura holds him in place.

“Kimura,” and something flashes on Kimura’s face, like he was waiting to hear his own name, “I’m...”

Kimura shakes his head and wraps his legs around him tightly, not letting him go, and Nakai can do nothing but keep rocking his hips until he comes inside of him, the orgasm shaking his bones and they’re still locked together when he grabs Kimura, knowing he’s been on the edge for quite a while and it takes barely seconds to get him off and that moan and that arc of his back would put porn stars all over the world to shame, complete shame.

He hesitates before giving Kimura his hand and watches him suck each of his fingers clean and mumbles something that sounds strangely like _dirty whore_ , to which Kimura just gives him that satisfied cat-grin, shaking strands of hair off his face. Maybe Nakai misinterprets this as a challenge, leaning down to lick his stomach, the taste isn’t good and he wants a cigarette. He’s too exhausted to move off the bed. He wants to lie down but with Kimura taking up the centre, there’s no place for him to lie without touching him. And he knows how disgustingly sweet and touchy-feely Kimura gets after sex. And Nakai just needs space, at least until their mixed sweat dries off his skin.

But he really needs to lie down.

“Say something sappy and you can get your ass outta here,” he says, facing away on the pillow.

“Aw, you say it as if we’re just fucking,” Kimura laughs, but something, maybe his finger that brushes the curve of Nakai’s hipbone, scares Nakai. The whole day hits him back again and he will probably fall asleep before Kimura decides to drag himself to the bathroom, so that no goodnights will be exchanged.

They only fuck and only on tours. It’s simple like that. It’s not real.


End file.
